What Was Needed
Tuesday, August 29, 2000
Spike cast one more look at the sleeping lump on the bed, then left the motel room. The sun was
bright in the sky and he squinted as he surveyed the parking lot while searching his pockets for his
sunglasses. It was only noon -- way too early for him to be awake -- but he had to get out of the
motel room. The cloying smell of sex had been making his stomach turn.
Normally, sex was sex was sex was sex. Spike could care less as to who, what, when, where, and
how, as long as he got his rocks off. This encounter, though, had left a bad taste in his mouth, and
not from going down on the elf. It had been almost like a chore, and although he'd well-pleasured
his partner and had been equally pleasured, it hadn't been enjoyable.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Sunglasses in place, Spike climbed on the Hawk and kicked her into gear. The Hawk's engine
purred sweetly, and he tore down the street, away from the disquieting sensation emanating from the
motel room. But despite physically leaving the motel, his mind had stayed to dwell on the problem.
His thoughts swirled in his brain as fast as the pavement passing under the wheels of the bike. Was
it him? Was it his choice of partner? Was it his Not Concern over Xander's actions last night? Was
it his Not Concern over the cold shoulder he'd been getting from Xander? Did he catch a case of
Brooding from shagging his sire? Could he be any more of a woman?
Spike's growl blended in with the growl of the engine as kicked up the speed. Maybe what he
needed was a good kill, to feel flesh bruising with his hits, to hear bones breaking under his Docs, to
taste the blood as it spurted like a fountain from his victim's throat. He hardened beneath his jeans
and his nostrils flared in anticipation. Yes, he thought. A good kill was exactly what he needed.